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She lumbers across the kitchen towards the derelict wooden table Having put down a cup of freshly made coffee she takes the last cigarette out of a mutilated pack lights it and then gives a long puff The chair creeks as she reclines to prop her head with a strong chubby hand The housewife is up to make some breakfast for the hungry family At ten minutes to seven she manipulates chunks of bread and slices of ham boils eggs and cooks the milk The steam adds to the clamminess of the kitchen for it already has an air of a bog For a moment her routine surliness wavers towards amiable attention a small brindled cat moves towards her giving a high-pitched meow pleading for its daily ration of milk At seven oclock the husband appears and soon after that the children plod wearily to take a seat at the table Soon the commotion starts with inflectionless voices asking each other commonplace questions in no solicitude or gentleness While they gobble the food the winter sun shines mildly behind them as a splendid backdrop to a graceless scene Seven fifteen and they all go their separate ways leaving her free to watch her favourite soap opera I have no doubts than most of us who live in New Belgrade have recognized bits of their homes or their hearts in this scene After all it is our personalities that reflect the air of our homes

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